


drabbles

by countthestars



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-01-17 15:37:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1393036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/countthestars/pseuds/countthestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>reposting ficlets from tumblr. various pairings; additional summaries for each ficlet/chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. never let go, jack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> summary: right so i got a little drunk watching titanic last night so the obvious course of action was to write a ziall nude drawing scene
> 
> zayn/niall, too many titanic references

“Zaaaaayn.”

Niall’s drunk. Probably. Maybe. It’s hard to tell; his cheeks get an inebriated flush whenever he’s had a few pints, or sometimes when he’s just excited.

“Yeh al’right?”

“Mmm,” Niall hums, crashing into Zayn. “Good, now.”

Zayn huffs out a sound that’s more laugh than sigh, the weight of Niall’s body heavy on his chest. “Happy for ya, mate.” He shoves at Niall until he can breathe again, lungs filling with air even as Niall’s arm stretches, warm across his chest.

Niall just giggles into the skin of his neck, the blonde tips of his hair tickling Zayn’s chin. His breath puffs against Zayn’s pulse, lips mouthing nonsensically.

“Em. What?” Zayn murmurs, suppressing a shiver.

Shifting until his mouth is clear of Zayn, Niall repeats, “Wan’ ya ‘t draw me, like one ‘o yer French girls.”

This time it’s Zayn’s turn to laugh, wheezing out a strangled gasp into Niall’s hair.

“ _What_?” he rasps, tightening his grip so Niall’s got nowhere to squirm but closer to Zayn.

Niall complies for a second, snuggling into Zayn, at least for a minute; then he’s pushing back, straightening his arms so he can meet Zayn’s eyes. “Want you ‘t draw me,” he says, enunciating clearly, “like one ‘o your French girls.”

“I don’t…” Zayn starts; stops. “I don’t have French girls.”

Niall flops back down with a groan, burrowing his face into the juncture between Zayn’s neck and shoulder. “It’s a feckin’ – it’s a  _reference_ , ya arse. Or are ya sayin’ yeh’ve never seen  _Titanic_?”

Zayn snorts. “Of course I’ve seen  _Titanic_. Don’t be stupid. Are ya askin’- he drew her _naked_ , Niall.”

With a grin, Niall lifts his head. “Who’s bein’ stupid now?”

-

“This is a terrible idea.”

Zayn gets a shirt to the face for his troubles. He sputters indignantly, and a pair of trousers follows. “The fuck… ‘m not gonna take this abuse, bro!”

Unconcerned, Niall lounges back on the bed – couch –  _whatever_. He’s not wearing a stitch of clothing. Zayn definitely does not blush.

“Wan’ ya ‘t draw me ‘n this.  _Only_  this,” Niall purrs, pawing at the (clip-on) earring he nicked from Harry.

“You’re ‘sposed to – ‘n the film she says that line,  _before_  she strips off,” Zayn complains, unable to tear his eyes away from the exposed skin of Niall’s chest, raking his gaze down recklessly until his stare hits Niall’s stupid toes.

Niall grins when Zayn abruptly snaps his eyes up to his face. “’N ‘m ‘sposed ‘t be wearin’ a feckin’ diamond, not Harry’s hand-me-downs. Be happy we’re not on a sinkin’ ship ‘n  _draw me_ , f’fuck’s sake.”

Ignoring his heated cheeks, Zayn reaches for a pencil, sketchpad already perched on his knees. “Thing is,” he starts, clearing his throat, but Niall’s easy laugh interrupts.

“Don’t,” he giggles again, “don’t say anything, ‘less its ‘t tell me how ‘t pose.” Smiling radiantly, he drapes his arms over his head. “Al’right like this?”

His biceps bulge, the muscle practically rippling in the intimate lighting. Zayn blinks.

“Yeah. ‘S fine. I just—”

“Shut up ‘n draw me,” Niall orders. He bites his lip, but it doesn’t stop it from curving up into the slightest of smiles. Ducking his head, Zayn peers at his sketchpad, setting the pencil to paper with a rhythmic scratch, eyes darting up periodically – for reference only, of course.

Niall never looks away from Zayn’s face, even when he’s drawing – well. Niall’ll see. Oh, god. He’ll  _see_.

“What’re you… what’re ya gonna do, with this,” Zayn asks, casual, barely pausing at all in his sketching.

In a slow blink, Niall closes his eyes. It’s the briefest of reprieves before he’s staring at Zayn again.

“The fuck ya think ‘m gonna do wi’ it? Lock it ‘n a safe ‘n sink it ‘t the bottom of the Atlantic? ‘m gonna  _keep_  it, ya twat.”

Zayn definitely pauses, now. There’s no covering this as artistic license, or whatever he was hoping to get away with before. He grips the pencil with sweaty fingers, hovering above the pad of paper, and stares at Niall with panicked eyes.

“I—” Zayn says. He can’t think of a single word to follow, looks at Niall helplessly. Niall’s mouth curls in a slow grin and he sits up, which, like, Zayn wasn’t done drawing his legs, and –

Niall crooks his finger, beckoning Zayn. Like a puppet on a string, Zayn jerks closer, sketch dropping forgotten to the floor.

“Thing is,” Niall says, breath hot against Zayn’s skin. “Been thinkin’ bout this for a while. Was hopin’ you’d be a bit more naked, ‘f ‘m bein’ honest.”

“Oh,” Zayn breathes. Niall’s clever fingers are trailing over the hem of his shirt, tugging until the fabric’s pulled over his head and the sudden draft of cold air is coaxing out goose bumps.

“I thought, like,” Zayn stammers, but then Niall’s lips are crashing against his and Zayn doesn’t say anything at all, for a while.

“I thought—” he starts again, when Niall’s given him a moment to breathe, but Niall is shaking his head, hand covering Zayn’s mouth, muffling the rest of his protest.

“Wan’ you ‘t take me ‘t the stars,” he murmurs and Zayn snorts against his hand. Niall jerks it back, wiping it off grievously against the arm of the couch. “Oi, the fucks wrong wi’ ya! ‘m tryin’ t’ be romantic, here.”

“You’re plagiarizin’ a film,” Zayn argues, but he can’t stop the curve of his lips, no matter how hard he tries.

“Was hopin’ for a happier endin’ than freezin’ ‘t death ‘n the ocean,” Niall replies, smiling at Zayn so hard that his eyes are just cerulean crescents, bluer than any ocean Zayn can remember.

Zayn swallows heavily. “I can – I can give you a happy ending.” He could drown in Niall’s eyes, maybe, and die happy. Niall’s cheek blooms into a dimple.

“Dunno if ya meant that as an innuendo, but ‘m answer’s the same. ‘Course, ya feckin’ idiot.”

Zayn grins, reaching for Niall. “Who’s the almost English-major here? Duh, I meant it.”

“Oh, Jack!” Niall yelps. “Never let go!”

“Shut up,” Zayn nearly growls. “Or I won’t do my whistle impression.”

Niall’s cheeks turn a truly brilliant shade of red at that, and Zayn’s sure it’s got nothing to do with the alcohol.

At Zayn’s quiet laugh, Niall’s smile softens, eyes crinkling, and Zayn’s definitely sure – well. Niall won’t be sharing that drawing with anyone. He might be sharing something with Zayn, though. Zayn’s heart thumps, hard, and he feels an answering thud from Niall.

“You jump, I jump, hey?”

“Whatever you say, Jack,” Niall mumbles, and pulls Zayn down for another kiss.


	2. just a bunch of hocus pocus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is just a little narry drabble about niall getting accidentally turned into a rabbit.
> 
> niall/harry, animal transformation

“Has anyone seen Niall?”

Neither Zayn nor Louis acknowledge him, eyes fixed to the screen of what looks to be a competitive game of FIFA. Louis tries to elbow Zayn, but he dodges it without even looking, kicking his leg out to knock Louis’ controller in retaliation.

“Oi! Fuckin’  _cheater_ ,” Louis complains loudly when Zayn subsequently scores. Zayn just grins.

Harry turns to Liam, who’s sat on the floor by Louis’ legs, scrolling through his mobile.

“Liiiiiaaaam,” he tries. “Have you—”

“Hang on, Harry, I’m trying to…” Liam trails off, tongue poking out as he taps laboriously at his screen. He frowns at it a moment later. “Does ‘enormous’ have one ‘a’ or two?”

Zayn does that thing where he looks at the ceiling and scrunches his face like he’s constipated. Either he needs a smoke or Liam’s about to get the ‘books won’t hurt you’ speech.

“Okay,” Harry mumbles to no one in particular. “Well if anyone sees Niall, tell him I said thanks for the rabbit.”

Three heads swivel towards him in an alarmingly synchronized motion.

“Is that a—” Liam starts to ask, eyes wide, but Louis bulldozes over him. “What the fuck are you doing with a  _rabbit_?” Zayn looks like he’s actually shit himself. Unsurprisingly, it’s a good look on him.

Ignoring his bandmates’ less than pleased reactions, Harry smiles down at the little brown bundle cradled in his arms. The rabbit blinks back up at him with bright blue eyes, nose twitching adorably.

“I told Niall I needed a rabbit for that illusion I’ve been trying to learn. Well, actually, I told him I needed a chinchilla, because rabbits are a little overdone, I think, and I read online that chinchillas are actually—”

“Would you – oh my god, Harry, no one cares about chinchillas. Where the fuck did you get a rabbit? We’ve literally been on the road all day.”

“I  _said_ ,” Harry says, “Niall got it for me. He must’ve, because he’s the only one who has _shown an interest_  in my hobby,” he pauses to give each of the boys a Significant Look, but is met with mostly blank stares. “My hobby,” he repeats, “which is magic.”

“Yeah, babes, we know you like magic tricks,” Zayn says patiently, but Harry stamps his foot, feeling petulant.

“They’re not tricks, they are  _illusions_ , tricks are – well, they’re, um, what… what ladies of the, um…”

Louis does a fair impression of Zayn, rolling his eyes hard enough to pull a muscle. “We’re cutting Harry off from the band Netflix account,” he announces. “You’ve been watching too much Arrested Development, if GOB is your role model.”

“Well, we can’t all aspire to be Lucilles, can we, Lou?” Liam grins from his seat on the floor.

“Oooh,  _aspire_ , someone’s pulling out the big guns. Been waiting all day to use that one, have you?”

Zayn’s face can only be described as someone who’s shit their pants and then been forced to sit in the mess while their bandmates argue pointlessly, and Harry’s really got to let go of this metaphor.

“Could we focus, maybe? Louis, don’t mock literacy. Liam, that was great, babe, very nice word.” Liam beams with pride. Louis pantomimes hanging himself with a rope. Zayn ignores them both, turning to Harry. “Can you, like, walk us through, step-by-step, how you ended up with a rabbit?” He pauses, wrinkling his brow in thought. “Actually, like. Give us a  _brief_  summary.”

“Okay.” Harry takes a deep breath. “I was practicing my tri- my illusion, only it was hard because I was using one of Niall’s balled up t-shirts instead of a rabbit.” He holds up the rabbit in his arms helpfully. It wriggles around until Harry snugs it close again, little rabbit heart beating rapidly. “Also, I was using Niall’s snapback instead of a top hat, and you need a secret flap – I mean, um, well I can’t give away insider secrets, but the point is that it wasn’t working.”

“It’s like he doesn’t understand the meaning of the word brief,” Zayn mutters, but Liam shushes him. “He’ll get to the point eventually.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Harry continues loudly. “Niall googled some spells on his mobile for to me try, because he’s a  _supportive friend_.” More blank stares. Harry’s an army of one. Two, maybe, with the rabbit, but he thinks it’s probably unethical to enlist them, or, like, whatever the rabbit equivalent of enlistment is. Is there a rabbit equivalent of enlistment? Horses used to fight, or be ridden, he supposes, into war, so there’s at least some kind of precedent…

Zayn yawns. No one in this band has  _manners_.

Harry trudges on, determined. “But, like, obviously they didn’t work because it’s not actual magic, just an illusion, so, um, Niall laughed – supportively – and took his snapback back and said he was going to take a nap, so I decided to take a nap, too, only Niall must’ve been faking, because when I woke up I found this rabbit in his bed, all curled up in his snapback.” Harry cuddles the rabbit. “It was quite cute, actually.”

There’s a pause that Harry would call awkward if he weren’t with three of his best mates.

“What?” he says finally.

Zayn, Louis, and Liam exchange some kind of complicated three-way look and Harry doesn’t feel left out. He lifts the rabbit up to nuzzle his face into its soft brown fur. White would’ve been better, obviously, for the illusion, but it was nice of Niall to avoid that cliché, even if Harry would have preferred a chinchilla.

It’s Louis who finally answers, voice uncharacteristically hesitant. “Thing is, H, we haven’t… we’ve only stopped for like, snacks and shit since you and Niall fucked off to nap. There’s nowhere he could’ve gotten you a rabbit, for fuck’s sake.”

Harry frowns down at the very real, very warm rabbit in his arms. “Then where did…” His eyes widen with the realization. “Oh my god.  _I turned Niall into a rabbit_.”

He has a hard time convincing himself that the laughter is supportive, after that. It dies off pretty quickly, however, when a quick search of the bus reveals that Niall is nowhere to be found.

“He probably switched to the other bus when we stopped,” Liam says reasonably.

Louis has their bus driver radio the other bus driver, because he thinks the radio is cool. It is cool, Harry will admit, but more importantly, there’s no Niall on the other bus. There’s no Niall anywhere.

“Because I’ve turned him into a  _rabbit_ ,” Harry sniffles, clutching Niall to his chest. Niall squirms, little furred feet kicking out until Harry loosens his grip. “Sorry, Niall,” he whispers.

Zayn makes a weak groaning noise, like he’s dying a slow, painful death. Louis is biting his lip so hard the skin is white, shooting Harry a pained look like holding his tongue is costing him. Liam just looks thoughtful.

“If it really is Niall, maybe he can communicate with us!” he says excitedly.

Louis slaps a hand over his eyes. “You’re not – oh my god. Mate, tell me – oh, no. C’mon, Liam.”

“Excellent idea, Liam,” Harry grins. He sets the rabbit down on the gently rocking floor of the bus. It doesn’t do anything, just sits there, wiggling its little rabbit nose.

“Um…”

“What sound does a rabbit make?” Liam wonders out loud. “If Niall were a dog, we could ask him to bark twice, or summat, but I dunno about a rabbit.”

“They hop, don’t they? Niall, if you’re that rabbit, hop three times!”

Someone – Louis or Zayn – groans. The rabbit doesn’t hop, just looks up at Harry with its big blue eyes.  _Niall’s_  big blue eyes, Harry’s sure of it.

“Right,” Louis says dryly. “If you’re done fucking about with that rabbit, maybe we could discuss a plan to find our currently missing bandmate?”

“Oh, I dunno, Lou,” Zayn says, face scrunched in a smile. “Harry hasn’t even tried kissing him yet. Maybe that’ll break the spell.”

“Zayn, you’re  _brilliant_ ,” Harry breathes, awed. Zayn’s face blooms into a grin and laughter bubbles out of his throat, which he quickly muffles into Louis’ sleeve. Louis turns to hide his face into Zayn’s hair and Harry tunes out their stifled conversation.

Carefully, he reaches for the rabbit, bringing its twitching nose up to eye level. “Ready, Niall?” he asks. Niall flicks one of his ears and Harry takes it as a yes. He brings Niall’s little rabbit face to his, presses his lips against soft fuzz.

He waits a moment, so it counts, but when he lifts Niall away, he’s still just a rabbit. Harry frowns.

“Must not have been true love,” Liam says, sympathetic. Zayn and Louis are both laughing hysterically, now, and Harry retreats to the bunks with his rabbit bundle. He definitely is not sulking, no matter what any of his bandmates might say later.

He wants to curl up in his own bunk, but he likes the warm feeling of Niall in his arms and thinks that if he were turned into a rabbit, he’d at least want the comfort of his own bed. Niall’s snapback is still lying on the bunk from earlier, so Harry scoops it up before crawling in. He settles it over Niall’s little body and Niall sighs contentedly, snuggling his rabbit face into the crook of Harry’s arm.

“Love you, Niall,” Harry murmurs as he pulls the blanked over them both. It smells like Niall. It smells like home.

It doesn’t Harry long to drift to sleep.

-

When Harry wakes up, he can’t feel his arm.

He wiggles about and realizes that the narrow bunk feels crowded because there’s another body curled up next to him about half a second before he falls out of it, landing harshly on his arse.

“Ow,” he says.

Niall pokes his tousled head out of the bunk, looking down at Harry with confusion. “What’re ya doin’ down there?”

Harry’s never been so happy to hear Niall’s Irish lilt. “Niall!” he yelps, scrambling off the floor and flinging himself into Niall’s arms. A poor choice on a moving bus, it turns out, because he brains himself against the edge of the top bunk and ends up half on, half off the bed, legs splayed out on the ground like a newborn deer.

Niall just smiles, though, and pulls at Harry’s arms until he’s managed to climb back into the bunk and conveniently, into Niall’s lap.

“You were – the spell – I mean – Niall!” Harry babbles, incoherent.

“Bloody eegit. Did ya think ya could kiss it better, then?”

“I – well, I mean. You’re not a rabbit anymore?”

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” Niall says with a grin.

“Heeey,” Harry protests. “I resent that.”

“What, after I’ve been there f’ya and all your fuckin’ magic tricks?” He shoves a hot palm over Harry’s mouth before he protest about Niall’s word choice. “‘ve got a trick ‘t show ya, if ya promise not ‘t turn me into anymore animals.”

Harry shoves his hand away. “Deal.”

Niall grins filthily. “Watch this. Gonna make your trousers disappear before your very eyes.”

-

Harry’s seen better illusions, maybe. He’s not going to complain, though.

Niall’s mouth, it turns out, is positively magic. 


	3. don't forget where you belong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt fill for fannyyann's [ace ficathon](http://fannyyann.livejournal.com/1012.html) (which you should check out and prompt/fill!!!)
> 
> asexual!niall/zayn for hungerpunch's lovely [prompt](http://fannyyann.livejournal.com/1012.html?thread=36596#t36596).

It was sorta like this:

When Liam downloaded that ‘word of the day’ app after that whole _comedic_ fiasco, he and Louis had a running bet on how often he could work his word of the day into a sentence. Louis had a complicated scoring system the rest of them couldn’t understand (but generally resulted in Louis winning, so probably it was fixed) and it only seemed to make Liam more determined to use his word in increasingly bizarre and complex and, well, wrong ways.

Which lead to a vicious cycle of Liam saying ridiculous things (“Lou, I hope you _pratfall_ all over the stage”) and Louis gloating (“‘pratfall’s a noun, not a verb, you _lose_ , Liam Payne”) and Zayn threatening homicide if they didn’t let him sleep (“I know it’s not your word today, Liam, but it means _murder_ and I swear to you, I will hide your body where no one will find it”).

Sometimes, though, they’d be in an interview or doing press or something, insincere smiles pasted on their faces as they answered the same old, recycled questions, and Liam would pop out of nowhere with a thoughtful answer with one of his words and it’d just… fit.

Niall didn’t think there was a word like that, for him.

Figured maybe, not everyone was meant to fit.

-

(And maybe there wasn’t a word, a _label_ , that Niall could wear like a cloak, the way Zayn wore his homosexuality like a fierce badge and Harry his bi identity like a comfortable scarf, but.

Even if Niall didn’t feel like he fit, he knew he _belonged_ , with these four boys that were more like brothers than mates.

And it was enough.

At least, until it wasn’t.)

-

“These tabloids are such trash,” Eoghan wrinkled his nose in disgust as he shoved the offending rag away. “Why does everyone think it’s okay to speculate on someone’s sexuality? Why’s it matter, anyway? Doesn’t matter who you like, boys, girls, _whatever_.”

“Yeah,” Niall agreed. “What if, though…” he trailed off, not sure how to continue.

Eoghan nudged his knee against Niall’s. “C’mon, you can say it. You’re amongst friends here, yeah?”

Swallowing past the sudden lump in his throat, Niall aimed for casual when he said, “What if you don’t like anyone?”

Eoghan threw back his head and laughed. “Oi, what are you on about? You like literally _everyone_.”

“No, I just meant,” Niall licked his lips. “Hypothetically, right. What if you like people, but you don’t want to, like… fuck anyone?”

He stared at the spot on his knee where his trousers had grown thin, picking at the loose threads of fabric. He thought at some point they had belonged to Louis or maybe Zayn, but surely they wouldn’t want a pair of holey jeans back.

Next to him on the couch, he could feel Eoghan shifting around. “There’s a word for that,” he finally said, voice soft.

Niall glanced up, surprised. “There is?”

Nodding slowly, Eoghan said, “Yeah. Asexual. It’s not weird or anything. I can send you some links later if you – if you’re curious, I mean.”

It took Niall a long moment to clear his throat enough to speak. “Yeah, I’d – thanks.” He voice came out a little smaller than he’d meant.

Eoghan smiled, knocking his knee against Niall’s again, normal, like Niall’s world hadn’t just shifted on its axis.

-

Niall stayed up until his eyes felt gritty with lack of sleep, eyelids like sandpaper every time he blinked, scrolling through site after site.

It wasn’t until the sun came up, light murky behind his closed blinds, that he sat back, stretching his cramped muscles.

He had a word now. A word he was pretty sure – he felt like he _fit_ , finally, a round peg in a round hole after years of failing to squeeze himself into a square.

 _Asexual_.

With the relief, though, came a growing seed of doubt.

Niall knew where he fit, now.

But he wasn’t sure if he still belonged.

-

He told Liam, first.

They were in some city that Niall couldn’t pronounce, the second leg of their world tour stretching out endlessly in front of them like train tracks disappearing into the horizon. Niall felt a bit like he was careening out of control, the brake switch broken off in his fist as the engine kept crashing forward.

With a slightly shaking hand, he knocked on the hotel door. If Liam was surprised to see him, he didn’t give any indication, letting Niall in without question. Didn’t say anything at all when Niall sat on the foot of his bed, hands clenched tight against the trembling. Just slid his arm around Niall’s shoulder, pulling him in close for a cuddle.

“Love you, Nialler. You know that, right?” he whispered against Niall’s hair.

Niall glanced down at the chevrons inked boldly into Liam’s forearm, which was wrapped snug around Niall’s middle. “I know,” he whispered back.

Liam let him sit in silence, his arm a heavy, comforting weight, while Niall worked out the words he wanted to say. Listened quietly while Niall tripped over his tongue, stuttering out a definition. Hugged Niall close when he finally admitted, voice small, “Liam, I think I’m – no, I _know_ I’m asexual.”

“You can be any kind of sexual you want,” Liam said fiercely. “You can be – you can be chevron-sexual, I don’t care. I love you, Niall. Nothing’s gonna change that, okay?”

Niall muffled a wet laugh in the fabric of Liam’s shirt. “Eejit,” he mumbled, pulling back to smile at Liam. “Chevron-sexual isn’t a _thing_.”

“I didn’t know asexual was a thing, until a minute ago,” Liam pointed out.

“It’s not like I made it up,” Niall said, a touch defensive.

Liam immediately looked contrite. “Hey, no, I didn’t mean that.”

“And I don’t – this isn’t something I _want_ , Liam. It isn’t something I _chose_. It’s something I _am_.”

“I--” Liam started, stopped; closed his mouth with an audible click. “Okay,” he said, after a moment. “I get that, I think. You’re asexual. But you’re also – you’re still Niall. And I’m going to be here for you, whatever you are, however you, like, identify, okay?”

Niall’s answering smile was a little watery. “Okay.”

-

When he told Louis, it was more like.

It was like ripping off a bandaid, fast and quick against the pain, because Louis could be kind-hearted or he could twist his words, sharp like a knife in your back.

Niall knew that Louis’ protective streak ran a mile deep, but sometimes his tongue was quicker than his brain, and that was when it hurt most of all. Louis could cut deep in places that were hard to heal, when he wanted, and sometimes when he didn’t mean to at all.

But Louis wasn’t cruel. (He wasn’t careful, either, like Niall was something delicate and breakable that needed to be handled with care.) He was Louis; brash and curious and, well. Protective.

“So you don’t like sex, then?” he asked, eyes narrowed.

“Not really. No.”

“Are we talking, like, full penetrative sex? Or are handies and blowies off the table too? What about snogging? Nipple play?” With quick fingers, he darted his hand out to pinch Niall’s nipple.

Niall batted his hand away, giggling. “This a fuckin’ interrogation? Or did I miss the band meeting where everyone shared the nuances of their sexual preferences?”

“ _Nuances_. Somebody’s swallowed a dictionary. Borrowed Liam’s app, did you? Look, Niall, I’m just trying for clarity, here. Need to know exactly what your boundaries are, so I can make sure to cross them.” Louis’ lips were turned up into a teasing smile, but Niall could see the worry, plain in the wrinkle of his brow, the nervous way the words kept tumbling out.

“Louis,” he said, wrapping him up in a hug. “’M not. This doesn’t change anything, yeah? I just have a word now, for how I‘ve always felt.”

Louis hugged him back, arms tight. “You’re okay? Because you need to tell us, to tell _me_ , if – we don’t want to make you uncomfortable, Niall. Love you, okay? Want you to feel safe here, always.”

Niall kept his face buried in Louis’ neck as he nodded, breathing in his familiar scent and holding on like a lifeline.

-

Harry told him a long, winding story about a seagull that didn’t seem to have a point (or an end, for that matter), but Niall nodded along like it was all very profound.

Then Harry tackled him into a hug, octopus limbs everywhere, and peppered his face with kisses until they were both laughing and breathless.

“’M proud of you, Niall,” he mumbled later, into Niall’s sweaty neck. He pushed himself back so he could meet Niall’s eyes, half leaning over Niall where he was still sprawled on the floor of the bus. “It’s hard, to, like… to come out and _say_ it, ya know. And I just.” Harry smiled, the lopsided one that the fans never got to see. “I love you a whole lot.”

Niall grinned back, and if he cried a little, well.

The bus was a bit dusty, was all.

-

It wasn’t that Niall _meant_ to tell Zayn last.

He watched the lit end of Zayn’s cigarette flare red hot as he inhaled, watched the stream of smoke dissipate into the cool night air as his lungs emptied. They were stories and stories up on a tiny balcony, far from the public’s prying eye. Niall wasn’t afraid of heights, never had been, but.

Zayn was the closest Niall had ever come to falling.

“Asexual, huh?” Zayn said, voice rough like this wasn’t his first smoke of the night.

“Yup,” Niall confirmed. He gripped the cold metal railing just to have something to do with his hands. Watched the way Zayn’s stubbled cheeks hollowed as he took another drag, his heart thunking painfully hard in his chest.

“You do much research?” Zayn asked finally, flicking his spent cigarette into the abyss.

Niall shrugged. “Read a bunch of stuff Eoghan sent me. Why?”

It took Zayn a minute to answer. He studied Niall thoughtfully from across the narrow balcony, eyes glittering in the starlight. “Then you probably know, it’s – it’s a bit different for everyone, yeah?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like--” Zayn bit his lip. “Not every person who identifies as asexual feels the same way about sex, or relationships, or even, like attraction. It’s all a gray-scale, you know? Everyone’s different and that’s _normal_.”

Niall stared. “How do you know all that?”

It was Zayn’s turn to shrug. “Eoghan’s not the only one who knows stuff.”

“No, but I mean – _why_ do you know all that?” Niall pressed, taking a step forward.

Zayn made an abortive motion like he was reaching for a cigarette before stilling his hands. “Don’t be mad, okay? Liam said something the other night, and he didn’t – it wasn’t – he didn’t say anything about _you_ , specifically, but it wasn’t hard to guess.” He smiled ruefully. “Wanted to be prepared in case, you know. In case you wanted to tell me, too.”

“ _Zayn_.”

“So, like, thank you? For trusting me enough to tell me, I mean. I love you, Niall, we all do, and I just. I want to make sure you know that.”

“Yes, Zayn, I love you.”

And then Zayn’s arms were around him, Niall’s head tucked under his chin, and maybe Niall had some gray to work through until he fit, completely, but Zayn’s love was unconditional, and that.

That was black and white.

-

It’s sorta like this:

Niall belongs, with these four boys that are more like brothers than mates, and not one of them will let him forget it.

And he knows where he fits, more or less. He’s got a starting point, at least, and he knows that he’s not on his own.

There’s still a lot of gray in his life, but he’s got time to figure it all out. He’s got a boy who’s willing to wait for him, take whatever he can give and not ask for anything more.

He snuggles further into Zayn’s side as the bus rolls down the highway, snatches of moonlight flickering over the panes of Zayn’s sleeping face. He can feel Zayn’s heart beating steadily under his palm.

It feels a lot like home.


	4. bite me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> vampire!zayn/harry, based on these spectacular tags
> 
> warnings for biting/blood drinking in the context of vampirism.

 

In all honesty, it started out as a lark.

Trish had laughed at his fascination with the X-Factor, but it turned to wide-eyed wonder after he stepped out of the bathroom one day in a cloud of steam, fresh from the shower.

“Did you know the pipes bring hot water right to you? ‘S incredible.”

She seemed entirely unconcerned with the pipes and their amazing abilities. “Zayn. I didn’t know you could  _sing_  like that.”

“D’ya think Simon’d be impressed, then?” he’d joked and, well. Things had escalated rather quickly after that. Trish was surprisingly bullheaded, for a human.

It turned out, actually, that Simon was quite impressed. Zayn suddenly found himself in a _boy band_ , of all things, with four bright-eyed lads with quick smiles and kind hearts. He wasn’t used to friends – wasn’t used to people, even – but he somehow felt at home, wrapped up in their jovial laughter and tender innocence.

It was a bit of a problem, actually, because he could eat them all. He really could.

-

He’s not going to, though.

No matter how many times Liam presses into his space, sad puppy eyes begging for acceptance and blood thrumming enticingly under the thin skin at his wrist, or Niall throws his head back in cackling laughter and the veins in his neck bulge, or Louis runs around backstage until he’s panting with exertion, heart thumping wildly in chest, the rhythm pounding away at Zayn’s temple like waves eat away at the shore.

Zayn  _likes_  them, is the thing, even when they take the piss. (Sometimes especially when they take the piss, because it’s like – it’s like he  _belongs_ , or something equally ridiculous.)

And it’s not impossible, or even that hard, really, to resist. Zayn’s had centuries of practice, after all. He’s got self-control, ta.

He rolls over in his bunk, burrowing deeper into the blankets. The rest of the boys are downstairs somewhere, no doubt causing a ruckus, having followed Louis off on an adventure like he was some sort of modern day pied piper.

The door cracks open and an offending bar of light slices into Zayn’s dark solitude.

“Zayn?” someone whispers. “You awake?”

“G’way,” Zayn mumbles into his pillow. There’s a shuffling sound and the door clicks shut a moment later, plunging the room back into darkness. Zayn signs in contentment, but he’s a bit premature, because suddenly there’s a warm body crawling into bed next him.

“The fuck?” he lifts his head and gets a mouthful of curls for his troubles. Of course.

Harry flops down, snuggling into Zayn’s side and pushing his face into Zayn’s neck. Zayn can feel Harry’s warm breath against his skin, can hear the quiet tattoo of his heart, beating steadily against his ribcage. Humming in contentment, Harry drifts off easily, the rise and fall of his chest slowing into the smooth cadence of sleep.

Zayn stares up at the ceiling, wide awake, thoughts churning restlessly. Sometimes, he thinks it’s impossible, that Harry’s got to have some sort of supernatural lineage that makes him so hard to resist – but his blood smells agonizingly, tantalizingly human.

-

They end up placing third, which really, isn’t bad for a lark.

The boys are absolutely gutted, though, Harry especially, and when someone shoves a microphone in front of Zayn’s face, he opens his mouth and the words just sort of tumble out. “Uh, we’re definitely gonna stay together. This isn’t the last of One Direction.”

They sound right, though, as soon as he says them. He glances over at Harry, who looks less like he’s about to burst into tears and more like – well, Zayn’s probably  _projecting_ , but Harry’s looking back at Zayn like he wouldn’t mind being eaten.

It’s not the first time Zayn has seen that look on Harry’s face, and Zayn realizes with sudden dread that it’s probably not going to be the last, because he’s just signed onto this band for the foreseeable future.

As if being a vampire in a boy band wasn’t complicated enough. Zayn’s going to need to sleep for three centuries whenever he gets himself out of this mess.

-

It’s worse when they go on tour.

It’s all – it’s all tight spaces, crowded buses, crowded hotel rooms, crowded dressing rooms, crowded everything. There’s no room to  _breathe_. Not, like – it’s not like Zayn needs room to breathe (he doesn’t need to breathe at all, does he?) but some space, some time to  _himself,_  away from the alluring scent of youth and life and blood, well.

Be a nice change of pace, is all.

He tosses around in his fluffy hotel bed. Usually the softness of the mattress has him drifting off into a deep sleep in no time at all, but tonight everything feels wrong, ill-fitting and uncomfortable.

With a sigh, Zayn kicks the blankets away until they bunch at the end of the bed. It’s no use, though; whatever he tries, no matter how many layers he discards, he can’t shake the itchy feeling crawling over his skin.

Almost as if he’d summoned it, there’s a knock on his door. A glance at the clock reveals its late – convenient, isn’t it, these modern day clocks? – and Zayn shuffles to the door, dressed in only a pair of tight fitting briefs.

He swings the door open on silent hinges and Harry is standing there, looking sheepish beneath his tousled head of curls.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he mumbles, smiling almost shyly. It’s amusing, Zayn thinks absently. Harry’s never been shy a day in life. “C’n I come in?”

“’Course,” Zayn smiles in answer and Harry’s eyes widen alarmingly. For a moment, Zayn thinks he’s fucked it all up; Harry  _knows_ , he’s going to  _flee_ , he’s going to  _tell_ , but – instead, he takes a steady step forward, far enough into the room to shut the door behind him with an audible click.

Zayn bites his lip hard enough to draw blood. His tongue darts out to lap it up and he can taste the desperation.

Harry doesn’t break eye contact and Zayn doesn’t know who’s more fucked. He stalks over to Zayn like  _he’s_  the predator, and Zayn nearly takes a step backwards before he catches himself.

“What d’ya want, then?”

Zayn didn’t bother to turn on the light when he answered the door, but the moon’s nearly full tonight and it washes the room in a pale, unearthly glow. Even without his enhanced vision, Zayn would be able to see the way Harry’s pupils are blown wide, his mouth red and wet like he’s been snogging someone. Harry catches his bottom lip between white, even teeth and Zayn can’t tear his gaze away.

“Can’t sleep,” Harry repeats, voice low. His lips stretch in a dirty smirk. “Tell me a bedtime story?”

Zayn stares at him for a full minute, blinking in disbelief. “Ask Lou if ya want a fuckin’ story. ‘m goin’ back to bed.” He crawls beneath the sheets and settles on his side, back towards Harry. The mattress dips a moment later and Zayn feels cool air against his skin as Harry lifts the sheet before sliding into bed and plastering himself against Zayn’s back.

“You’re a menace, ya know that?” Zayn huffs.

“If you won’t tell me a story, then I want a goodnight kiss,” Harry says. It comes out a bit muffled, as Harry has his mouth pressed into the back of Zayn’s neck, his lips catching on Zayn’s skin with every word.

Zayn shudders and before he really thinks it through, he’s rolling over, shoving Harry back and throwing a leg over Harry’s skinny hips so he’s pinned beneath Zayn.

Harry blinks up at him, but it’s not – he’s not  _afraid_. His heart is beating wildly under Zayn’s palm and he should be afraid, he should be  _terrified_ , Zayn could hurt him, Zayn could kill him, but –

There’s no panic in Harry’s eyes, no sharp scent of fear. Harry rolls his hips, still bracketed by Zayn’s thighs, and groans when he makes contact. Like Zayn, he’s only wearing pants, just a thin layer of cotton separating them, and Zayn can’t, he can’t –

He runs his hand down Harry’s smooth chest, feels the way his breath hitches whenever his grinding hips catch against Zayn’s just right. Harry’s splayed out beneath him, wrists pinned above his head and flexing against Zayn’s grip, but he’s not fighting it. He’s got his head thrown back as he pants, the long, pale line of his throat exposed to Zayn like an offering.

All Zayn can feel is Harry, all he can smell is fucking  _Harry_ , and all of the sudden it’s too much and it’s not enough and Zayn loses it, he loses his tenuous grasp of self-control. He leans down, sharp teeth pressed to the tender skin beneath Harry’s jaw.

It’s like standing on a precipice. If Zayn bites down, it’s over, it’s all over; you can’t  _eat_ your bandmates, it’ll be the end of everything and damn it, this was supposed to be a _lark_.

“Please, Zayn,” Harry gasps out. “Want you to… want you…”

If he finishes the sentence, Zayn doesn’t hear it. All he can focus on is the shockingly fragile way Harry’s skin gives beneath his teeth, the rush of blood filling his mouth, the euphoria of finally giving in.

 

 

**(and part 2)**

 

It’s Harry’s groan that brings him to his senses.

Zayn jerks back in a panic, but Harry’s grip on his thighs tightens, and it’s enough to stop him from scrambling off the bed and running from the room without a backwards glance. (Sort of an embarrassing instinct for a vampire, Zayn supposes, but he’s never been one to stand around and deal with his own messes.)

And Harry’s definitely a mess, but less in the oh-fuck-now-I-gotta-deal-with-this-corpse kind of way and more in the too-fucked-out-to-notice-a-vampire-was-nibbling-on-his-neck kind of way. He’s looking up at Zayn with half-lidded eyes, panting heavily, and his mouth is red, red, red as the blood still oozing thickly from the bites on his neck.

“’S good,” he slurs. “Like when it hurts a little.”

He’s grinding up against Zayn again, hands drifting around to grip Zayn’s arse, pull him in closer. “C’mon,” he whines. “Do it again.”

“Harry,” Zayn tries to say, but it comes out all choked and needy sounding. Harry’s fingers are kneading into the skin of his arse, fingertips catching on the edge of his pants and  _god_ , Zayn’s going to come, grinding against Harry like a randy 16-year-old.

“Zayn,” Harry whimpers, hips stuttering against Zayn’s. “Pl-please, ah,  _Zayn_.” He’s gripping Zayn hard enough to leave bruises, though they’ll fade quicker than Harry’s post-orgasm glow. He won’t stop babbling, just this breathy stream of “please” and “oh god” and “ _Zayn_.” And it’s like, Zayn’s only vampire, isn’t he?

With a growl, Zayn drives his hips down against Harry’s in a filthy grind. He leans down until his lips are nearly brushing the trail of blood dripping from Harry’s neck and the scent floods his senses, making his head spin. He’s seconds away from losing it for the second time tonight, just sinking his teeth into Harry, completely unable to resist the intoxicating pull, when Harry jerks against him and gasps out, “ _Zayn_ , god, love you.”

Harry slumps back bonelessly on the bed, completely spent, breath still coming in harsh pants. His eyes are closed and he has a blissed out smile on his face, which is good, because it means he doesn’t notice the way Zayn has gone stiff, still crouched over him.

“C’mere,” he mumbles sleepily some countless moments later, tugging Zayn down. “Cuddle wi’ me.”

Zayn lets Harry pull him down until he’s tucked against Harry’s side, his skin tacky against Zayn’s as the sweat begins to cool. Harry doesn’t seem to care, or notice, sighing happily and lacing his fingers through Zayn’s.

Zayn waits until Harry’s breathing has even out and he’s snoring softly before he disentangles his hand. Cautiously, he reaches up to brush his fingertips over the dried blood on Harry’s neck, dark bruises already beginning to form around the tiny puncture wounds.

Harry snuffles in his sleep, face turning instinctually towards Zayn and it’s like a punch to the gut.

Zayn’s never been in love with a human before. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with something so fragile.

 


	5. turn your head and cough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> au. liam/harry, based on this prompt.

 

It’s not that Liam is high-strung, exactly.

(“I don’t know how you walk around with a stick shoved that far up your arse, mate,” Louis always says, but Louis says a lot of shit, so Liam takes everything he says with a grain of salt.

“It’s not a fuckin’ competition, Li. Just because I use a metaphor, doesn’t mean you have to one-up me.”

“An idiom,” Zayn corrects, breathing out a stream of smoke. He looks like a movie star, cigarette held loosely between two fingers. Liam swallows against the urge to cough, lungs burning.

“Shut up, Malik. No one asked you anyway,” Louis huffs. He hates to lose, even when no one else is competing.)

He maybe worries more than his friends, but in all honestly they don’t seem to worry at all, so probably it balances out the universe, or something. Zayn would probably have something deeply profound to say about that, the universe and the stars aligning, ideas Liam would never think about on his own, because Zayn’s sort of amazing like that, but Liam—

Liam worries. About mundane things, like if he remembered to turn the hob off after making tea or how he’s going to pass his maths exam or how uncomfortable he’ll be all day if he’s caught in a rain shower after forgetting his umbrella at home.

Today, Liam’s day has been spent alternating between nervously jiggling his leg and nervously checking his watch. The train is  _late_ , is the thing. It’s very late and Liam has _time-sensitive plans_ _._  It’s his fault, in all honesty. He should have gotten up earlier to catch the first train out, even if it meant arriving several hours too soon.

It’d be better than arriving several hours too late, which is starting to look like a distinct possibility. Liam resists in checking his watch again by covering the face of it with his palm. Of course, then his eyes flick up to oversized clock hanging on the wall of the train station and he tracks the way the second hand races around, declaring that he is late, late,  _late_.

Huffing out an irritated breath, Liam slumps back against the bench and crosses his arms across his chest in a totally manly, unpetulant way. He’s so busy focusing on balancing his righteous indignation with his growing anxiety that he almost doesn’t notice the boy who trips his way across the train platform and settles onto the bench next to Liam’s.

Okay, that’s  _maybe_  a lie. Liam  _might_  intently watch, out of the corner of his eye, how the boy somehow stumbles with all the grace of a newborn fawn to the bench, sprawling out with octopus limbs like he owns it.

He’s got brown curly hair, not unlike the style Liam sported a few short years ago. His eyes are sea-glass green, not that Liam’s noticed, and his cheeks dimple attractively when he smirks at Liam.

Liam abruptly checks the time. Wow, the train is late. Really, super, late. Imagine that. Liam clears his throat. So late.

Out of his peripheral vision, because Liam is  _not_  checking out the boy next to him, okay, Liam can see the movement of limbs, as if someone gangly is stretching out their arms and legs in a  _blatantly_  sexual manner, this is a train station, for fuck’s sake—

An amused huff of air - how does someone  _breathe_  with amusement? - and Liam resolutely turns his head forward again. Not that he had turned it towards the boy, or anything, he was just — he was watching for the train, which is late, and fuck what Louis says, Liam does  _not_  have a stick up his arse—

The boy runs his hand deliberately up his thigh until it’s nearly cupping his crotch. Liam fixes his gaze on some indiscriminate point in the distance, doesn’t think about what else could be up his arse, ignores the way his cheeks are flaming hotly. His knuckles are white with how tightly he’s clenching his fists.

“You okay, mate?” A husky voice shatters Liam’s peaceful solitude. He glances to the side; it’s the boy, of course it is, the train station is empty, save for them.

“I’m fine,” Liam answers tersely. Politely, rather. So politely.

“Oh,” the boy offers. “You look a little tense, is all.”

“Totally fine,” Liam replies. His palms burn where his nails are digging into his flesh.

“Sure.” The boy lounges back onto his bench, as if the harsh wood is even comfortable. He crosses his ankle across his thigh, the picture of contentment. Without even glancing at Liam, he starts rustling around in his backpack, eventually unearthing a banana, off all things.

With what can only be described as an  _explicit sexual come-on_ , the boy starts peeling his banana, nibbling delicately at the tip. He must notice the way Liam is watching in complete despair, because he looks at Liam with surprise in his sea-green eyes. “D’ya want a bite?” he asks, holding the banana towards Liam like a rotting yellow microphone.

“No, thank you,” Liam says. Politely.

The boy shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He takes an alarmingly large bite and swallows it down. Liam gapes for maybe a minute before he remembers himself and sits up straight, eyes on the empty track.

Next to him, the boy continues eating theatrically, gulping audibly, but somehow managing not to choke. Liam doesn’t think about — well, it’s impossible  _not_  to think about — there is no way the boy has any kind of gag reflex, and the way his red lips stretch around—

Liam presses his hands to his heated cheeks. Where the  _fuck_  is his train?

There’s a shuffling noise as the boy finally climbs to his feet, chucking the banana peel into the trash. Thank god, Liam doesn’t think, because the boy swallowing down a banana didn’t effect him at all.

He barely notices when the boy grabs his backpack from where it sat forlornly on the bench, scoops it right up, only to settle easily right onto  _Liam’s bench_.

Not that Liam, like,  _owns_  this bench or anything. It’s just. There is a perfectly nice bench right there that the boy was clearly enjoying. No need to infringe on Liam’s territory, right?

The boy meets Liam’s wild gaze with a wide smile like he knows something Liam doesn’t. He settles back, the picture of contentment, legs spread wide as if, as if—

Liam’s  _not_  high-strung, okay, he just worries, is all, and if he desperately thinks “if you’re a mind reader, cough now,” it’s stupid, just an anxiety driven-thought, because he can’t actually control the way his mind is spiraling, and there’s no way the boy knows what he’s  _actually_  thinking, but…

But the boy meets his gaze, sea-green eyes steady as he winks at Liam, brings a fisted hand to his mouth and coughs politely.


	6. hail mary, full of grace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> listen i don’t know what this is. au, harry/niall, warnings for blasphemy, implied internalized homophobia, dirty talk, and almost voyeurism i guess. i’m sorry.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession.” Niall takes a deep, centering breath. There’s silence on the other side of the lattice, which isn’t all that unusual. Father McDermott is old (elderly, his dad would say) and Niall suspects he dozes through confession more often than not. Louis swore on the cross that he heard him snore once, but then just last week Louis swore on the cross he’d gotten into Eleanor’s knickers, so it’s anyone’s guess if it’s true or not.

“These are my sins,” Niall continues, voice soft in case Father McDermott really is asleep. Niall wants absolution, of course, but he also wants to avoid as much penance as possible. Father McDermott tends to be generous when assigning Hail Mary’s. 

Unable to sit still, Niall squirms a bit in his seat, idly runs his fingers over the hem of his shirt, untucked from his trousers. There’s an answering sound across from him, the creak of settling wood like someone has shifted into a more comfortable position.

Right. He’s stalled long enough. “I lied ‘t my father,” Niall begins. “And I cheated on my maths exam.” He’s not actually sure that’s a sin, but there had been a rather pointed sermon about honesty and integrity just yesterday.

He falls silent again, licking his lips with a suddenly dry tongue. “And finally, I, uh…” Niall huffs out a breath through his nose. “I had, uh, impure thoughts.” There. That should cover it.

There’s another creak, and then Father McDermott’s voice, sounded oddly muffled, murmurs, “Could you elaborate?”

“Uh. What? Sorry, I mean…” he doesn’t know what he means. It’s got to be a sin, or at the very least, unspeakably rude to question a priest, but… “You want me ‘t  _elaborate_?”

“You came to me for absolution,” Father McDermott reminds him, still sounding muffled, like he’s gotten caught in his robes or something.

Grateful for the lattice sparing him from making this confession face to face, Niall addresses his knees when he says, “The thoughts were, um, of a… sexual nature. And they were… about a… y’know, a bloke?” He doesn’t mean for it to come out as a question, but he’s pretty sure the Catholic Church frowns about that sort of thing. His collar feels suddenly too tight and Niall reaches up to tug at uselessly.

“Mmmm,” comes the reply, low and deep, sounding nothing at all like Father McDermott. Heart jackrabbiting in his chest, Niall reaches for the lattice screen, ready to tear it open, but the next words freeze him in place.

“Are you looking for forgiveness, Niall? Or do you deserve to be punished?”

The voice is clear now, slow and syrupy, each word dripping like honey. Niall swallows. “I deserve t’ be punished,” he says, barely louder than a whisper. He carefully doesn’t look through the holes in the lattice, terrified he’ll catch the gleam of green in the dimness, more terrified that he won’t.

“Mmm,” the voice murmurs again. “On your knees, I think.”

It’s cramped, but Niall does as he’s told, shuffling down from his seat and kneeling on the ground, forehead pressed against the smooth wood paneling of the door and hands braced on his thighs.

“You’re thinking impure thoughts right now, aren’t you, Niall?”

“Yes,” he huffs out, eyes squeezing shut.

A low laugh. “Wish this screen weren’t in the way. Bet you’re a sight, down on your knees like that.”

Niall doesn’t know what to say, can’t think over the roaring in his ears. He hasn’t — he’s never — it’s so  _dirty_ , he’s in  _confession_ , for fuck’s sake.

“Please,” he whispers, not sure what he’s begging for.

“Gagging for it, aren’t you?” the voices teases, almost cruelly. Niall rubs his sweaty palms over his thighs, trying and failing to ignore the bulge that’s starting to tent out the fabric of his trousers.

“Are you hard for me, Niall?” the voice asks and Niall has to bite back a whimper. He bangs his forehead against the wood paneling and the sound rings out dully.

“Shh, shh, none of that. Don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

Niall takes another deep breath, trying to calm himself, but then the voice adds, “Don’t want you to touch yourself at all, actually.”

“You — what?”

“You asked to be punished,” the voice reminds him. “Be a good boy for me, and maybe next week you’ll get a reward.”

_Jesus_. Niall pinches his thigh, severe enough that he hisses involuntarily at the pain, but his dick remains stubbornly hard. There’s a shuffling noise, then, the low whine of the other door swinging open, and Niall’s not — this can’t —

“Wait!” he croaks, blinking against the light spilling in.

The shuffling stops. “Same time next week, yeah? Be good for me.”

Niall can hear footsteps, loud at first and gradually fading until he’s alone in the confessional. He waits a few more minutes, until the sweat pricking at his temple has dried and his heart has found a rhythm resembling normal.

By the time he slips out of the church, Harry is long gone. Niall breathes a sigh of relief.

He won’t have to give up the charade just yet.


	7. waking up beside you, i'm a loaded gun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> non au. liam/louis songwriting fic. so close to actual smut you can almost taste it.

Louis’ pacing the room like a barely contained storm, restless energy rolling off him in waves. It used to drive Liam mad when he’d get like this, pull him in like a riptide until they were both struggling to keep afloat. Now, though, he’s got a better handle on Louis – on himself, really – and he knows exactly what to do.

Ignoring Louis, Liam crosses one ankle over the other, eyes on the telly as he mindlessly flicks through channels. They’re in a hotel room in some American city, Liam’s lost track, but he’s sure Niall’s got it plotted out on one of his charts.

“I just,” Louis sighs loudly, his entire chest heaving with the effort. “I just can’t get the lyrics right.”

“Uh huh.” Eyes still on the telly, Liam keeps clicking through channels, no idea what’s flashing on the screen. The key isn’t to ignore Louis, exactly. It’s to make Louis  _believe_ that you’re ignoring him.

“Liam,” Louis says sharply, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Louis,” Liam mimics, biting back a smile when Louis narrows his eyes. “Listen, mate, ‘m sorry you’re having writer’s block, or whatever, but this is literally our only day off for the next three weeks. Can you just, like, relax?”

For a moment, Louis just stares at him, looking extremely put out. Then he cracks a small smile. “Four years ago, would you ever have believed that you’d be the one telling me to relax?”

Liam can’t help grinning back at him. “Been a wild ride, hasn’t it?”

Instead of answering, Louis flops down on the bed next to Liam, one of his legs hooking over Liam’s knee. “It’s just…” he trails off. “We have so much more to lose now, y’know? Feels like, I dunno, the stakes are a lot higher, especially when it’s our names on the writing credits.”

The tension Louis’ giving off is nearly palpable, and when Liam rolls over and rests his palm over Louis’ heartbeat, he feels strung taught enough to snap.

“Lou,” he says gently, stroking his hand up and down Louis’ chest in a slow rhythm. He never knows what to say to Louis when he gets like this, when he turns that endless energy inward and lets it eat at him. Beneath his hand, though, Louis starts to deflate, sinking back into the mattress as his muscles relax.

They’re both sober, if a bit sleep-deprived, so Liam has no ready excuse when he leans down and presses his lips to Louis’. Under him, Louis immediately arches up, his hand cupping the back of Liam’s head and pulling him closer, mouth sliding wet and slick against Liam’s.

Liam’s breathing heavily by the time he pulls back, Louis still on his back beneath him, his hips straining up until Liam pins him down with one hand.

“What are we doing?” he asks, because they’re not drunk or high or any of the usual cop-outs they fall back on when they do this.

“Why are you talking?” Louis complains, his clever fingers finding the hem of Liam’s shirt and drifting up recklessly over his bare skin. “Kiss me,” he demands.

“No,” Liam says, and watches Louis’ eyes go round like saucers. “What about the band? I thought we said…”

Shaking his head, Louis appears to regroup. “We’re adults, yeah? Professionals. We won’t let it fuck up the band. Please, Liam, I—” he cuts himself off, reaching a hand down to rub over the bulge in Liam’s trousers.

Biting back the noise that wants to escape, Liam grabs Louis’ wrist, pinning it to the bed next to his head. Louis’ hand flexes like he’s thinking about fighting back, but he doesn’t test Liam’s grip.

“You what?” Liam asks, the words scrapped raw from his throat.

Wriggling beneath him, but making no effort to actually escape, Louis lets out a noisy breath. “I don’t know!” he finally bursts out. “I’m going mental thinking about this fucking song, and the album, and this tour, and I – fuck, Liam. I need you to kiss me, or touch me, or bloody  _do something_ , all right?”

“On one condition.” The words escape him before he can think about it, and Liam knows its a terrible idea, but Louis’ already babbling  _yes, of course, anything, tell me_.

“It’s just me, right? This isn’t – I need to know, Louis. Whatever this is, whatever we’re doing… you wouldn’t be… with anyone else—”

“You really are a bloody idiot,” Louis interrupts, tugging his hand free from Liam’s grip in one quick motion to pull him in for another kiss. “Of course it’s you. I can’t – I can’t control it, feels like. Can’t get enough of you, Li.”

Grinning, Liam finally gives in, pressing his hips down to grind against Louis’. The sound Louis makes goes straight to his dick, but then his hands are pushing against Liam’s shoulders, shoving him away.

“Lou…?”

“Fuck, no, it’s not you, Liam – or, well, it  _is_ , but…” Louis scrambles off the bed when Liam sits back on his heels, and Liam watches him with confusion.

“No control,” he mutters under his breath, reaching for a scrap of paper. “Powerless. Can’t hold back. Contain?”

Bemused, Liam watches as Louis starts scribbling madly, tongue caught between his teeth. His lips are a bruised red and his hair’s fucked from Liam’s hands. He looks fucking gorgeous, and focused in the way he only gets when he’s writing. It’s totally unfair.

Liam flops back against the pillows with a sad sigh. “I’ll be the bloke sitting over here, with no one touching his dick,” he says meaningfully.

Louis huffs out a laugh. “Give me a minute, would you? I’m on the verge of a truly brilliant chorus, here.”

“Look,” Liam tries to explain. “There’s a time to write songs, okay, and it’s not in the middle of a shag.”

Louis meets his eye with an almost feral grin. “What about having a shag in the middle of writing a song? ‘Cause I still have a verse or two I’m going to need some inspiration for…”

“Deal,” Liam says quickly. “Only, I think I don’t want any writing credits for this one? Feels a bit, y’know.”

Tossing his pen down, Louis stalks across the room, back to the foot of the bed. “Naughty?” he suggests, crawling up the mattress to straddle Liam’s hips.

“You’re the worst,” Liam groans against Louis’ mouth. “Or the best, maybe. Don’t care, ‘s long as you’re mine.”

“I’m all yours,” Louis agrees, and it sounds like a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case it wasn't obvious, the song mentioned was 'no control' which is obviously about louis giving liam a bj, which unfortunately happens after this ficlet ends.


	8. i get on my knees for you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> non au. harry/niall, explicit. based on this hot mess of an interview/amazing tags.

“This is a terrible idea.”

Niall says that about all of Harry’s ideas. Harry would take offense, but Niall always gives in after a token protest. It’s sort of a routine, by now.

Harry tries a random door knob, swings it open to reveal a small loo and grins at Niall triumphantly. He’s got this sixth sense when it comes to finding places to shag. Like a magical power, almost.

Niall takes one look and crosses his arms across his chest. “No,” he says flatly. “C’mon, Haz, we’ve got a perfectly good hotel room with a bed. ‘M not shagging you in a loo.”

“But Niall,” Harry whines. “It’ll be hours before we can go back to the hotel.” He takes a step closer, crowding Niall against the wall, lips not quite pressed to the shell of Niall’s ear. “Want to suck you off now,” he whispers hotly.

He can feel Niall shiver against him before he shoves Harry away. “The fuck, y’know that tickles,” he complains, rubbing his hand over his ear.

Harry all but stamps his foot. “’M trying to be sexy, here.”

“Try harder,” Niall suggests.

And, well, that’s not a challenge Harry’s about to back down from. Letting his lips curve into a near-smirk, Harry presses in close again, wedging his thigh between Niall’s legs. He keeps Niall’s hips pinned to the wall with one hand, cupping Niall’s face with the other. He doesn’t lean in to kiss him, though, just lets his thumb rub over Niall’s bottom lip, biting at his own and flicking his tongue out to soothe the sting. Niall’s gaze drops to Harry’s mouth and he lets out a shuddery breath.

He’s got Niall right where he wants him, and he rolls his hips forward to catch against Niall’s, just to hear him groan.

“Jesus fuck,” Niall bites out. “Don’t  _do_  that, fuck. Anyone could walk by and catch us!”

“Mmm,” Harry murmurs in agreement, ducking his head to press an open mouth kiss against Niall’s jack-rabbiting pulse. “Could put on a show for ‘em.”

Niall lets out a low whine, like he’d be into it, but then he’s swearing again and grabbing at Harry’s wrist, pulling him into the loo. Harry has to press the heel of his hand against his dick as he follows after Niall. It’s so fucking hot when Niall gets like this, too worked up to protest, completely gagging for it.

Niall’s barely got the door locked behind them before Harry’s sinking to his knees, fingers working quickly to unzip Niall’s trousers, pull his cock out. They’ve got ten minutes, tops, before they’re due for an interview. It’s fine, though. With the way Niall’s hips are already jerking, fucking shallowly into Harry’s mouth, and his fist is shoved between his teeth to muffle the sounds he’s making, Harry knows he won’t last long.

There are few things Harry loves more than taking someone deep, the sting of fingers pulling at his hair, just hard enough for his eyes to start tearing, but his voice’ll be wrecked for the performance later if he lets Niall actually fuck his mouth. With something like regret, he uses one hand to shove Niall back against the door, holding him still, and wraps the fingers of his other hand around his cock, wanking the length he can’t fit in his mouth.

One of Niall’s hands drifts down to pet at Harry’s hair, fingers threading through the long strands until he’s gripping it tight. Harry moans a little around the head of Niall’s cock when he tugs, and that’s all it takes for Niall to grunt out a warning before he’s coming down Harry’s throat with a strangled whine.

Harry swallows what he can, wiping away a bit of spunk that’s caught at the corner of his mouth. Niall’s a panting, sweaty mess, leaning heavily against the door, but it only takes him a minute to notice that Harry’s undone his own trousers and slipped a hand in his pants. Dropping to his knees, he bats Harry’s hand away, wrapping hot fingers around Harry’s cock and pulling him off quickly, babbling nonsense in his ear.

“Please,” Harry gasps, burying his face in Niall’s neck. “Please, Niall, need to…”

He bites down when he comes, hard enough to leave a mark on the pale skin where Niall’s shoulder meets his neck. It’s low enough that Niall will be able to cover it with the collar of his shirt, and Harry feels a flash of regret as Niall climbs shakily to his feet, washing his hands clean of Harry in the sink.

“Christ, Haz,” Niall complains, tugging his collar down to where the skin is already turning red, examining himself in the dingy mirror. “You’re like a fuckin’ vampire when you come.”

He tosses Harry a paper towel so Harry can wipe away the last of the mess before tucking himself back into his trousers. “Whatever,” Harry pouts. “You’ll cover it up anyway, ‘snot like anyone’ll see.”

Catching his eye in the reflection of the mirror, Niall raises a brow. “You want people ‘t see?”

Harry’s saved from answering when someone starts pounding loudly at the door.

“I swear to god,” Louis says, voice slightly muffled. “If you two are in there shagging…”

Harry grins. “Think we can convince him we were doing something completely innocent?”

Niall snorts. “Not a chance.”

*

He and Niall are still giggly ten minutes later when they shuffle into the interview, unable to meet each other’s eyes without bursting into laughter. The woman interviewing them tries to roll with it, is even game to switch spots with Harry when he makes the impromptu decision to take over the interview, microphone to his lips as he adopts a mock-serious tone.

Niall’s watching with amusement, his shirt neatly buttoned and his collar adjusted just-so, no sign of the mark Harry knows is a vivid purple, dark like a brand against Niall’s skin. He wonders if Niall would squirm, if he pressed his thumb to the bruise, hard enough to make it hurt.

Harry smiles, dimples out in full force, and turns his attention to Niall, all but ignoring the interviewer. “Um, who is the last person you had sex with?”

He thrusts the microphone in Niall’s face and Niall laughs awkwardly, face flushing a pretty red. He won’t say Harry’s name, of course he won’t, but it’s enough, Harry thinks.

It’ll have to be.  


End file.
